


Strife!

by ForgottenDreamofFlames



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abuse, Anger, Canon Typical Bro, Child Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4574574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForgottenDreamofFlames/pseuds/ForgottenDreamofFlames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You hate this. You hate him.</p>
<p>You've never won a strife before now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strife!

Your name is Dave Strider, and you are sick of fighting.

You are sick to death of fear and anxiety, the ever present worry that he will challenge you to another fight that would be more accurately be described as a beatdown with how one-sided it always is.

You're nauseated that you were forced to learn how to stitch yourself up by the age of twelve, have known how to hide bruises and cuts since you turned ten, and pain for even longer.

You huff half breaths through cracked lips and a dry mouth, sucking in the hot Texan air as your sweat dampened hands clench around the bound hilt of a sword too unbalanced for anyone to use without difficulty, feel the tender and reddened lines in your palms from squeezing it too hard for too long.

You react on a hair trigger, spinning around in time to catch his after image teasingly flash away out of your field of sight. Not a single carefully calculated slice towards him makes its mark, the same as it's always been, the way he's always taught you to fight since you could first lift a blade at an age far too young working just as well as your attempts to dodge. The flat of his sword smacking your bicep, a slap to the face splitting open your lip further to let your blood drip down your chin, a kick to the back of your knee; all lightly chastising you for your sloppy form, your slouching posture, your not-fast-enough reflexes that is better than any but his. None of it is good enough. This is what you get, this is what you deserve.

Your sword tumbles free from you to be kicked away and sent skittering across cement by his invisible figure. Upturned face met with an unforgiving fist, you cry out, head turned sharply to the side.

He's there again when you look back up from your own shadow. You take the rare moment of stillness to trace his form with your eyes, ignoring the throbs of pain in your cheek.

His legs are placed casually, though you know that they could be swung forward up into you any moment now to strike you with foot or knee. His loose black jeans are held low on hips with a gleaming belt buckle that shines the harsh sunlight into your eyes, a tactical movement even in the eye of the storm. His white shirt is soaked with sweat- from the heat, you know, not from any exertion of his part of course. It clings to the well muscled chest that moves slowly with his every breath. He's not even winded from inflicting such easy blows on you.

His jaw is strong and clean shaven. His lips tug up into a smirk shaded by his cap. It's an entirely intentional gesture, slow and measured; his expressionless face never changes unless he wants it to, mainly using it to taunt you into slipping up and seduce child protective services into thinking things were all well and fine in your household.

He was your god, your hero, your sole guardian, and main source of affection for years. He is none of those to you now.

He lazily moves the blade to your throat, held loosely in his hand. "Yield?" He says it like a question.

It's not.

Something grinds inside you, like the groan of an old machine when something finally pops out of place to be flung into the other mechanisms and brings the entire thing down.

You've already tried to fight back at this point when he seems so relaxed. You never did it again after the beatings you got.

You don't think he expects you to take a deep breath instead of sighing in defeat, not nodding to yield as you say, "I loved you."

You don't care enough to register his expression as you slash your sword towards him. It misses so you do it again, harder, and again. You attack in a flurry of attacks, ignoring the shallow stinging cuts that open along your arms and chest.

You don't remember when your sword got back in your hand. He never would have helped you and it was too far away to grab.

Metal clangs, that sound you've learned to fear ringing in your ears and the force of every blocked blow reverberating through your arms. You go harder than you ever have before, beating through the haze of red settling comfortably around the edges of your vision. He's on the defensive now, a previously impossible feat. The grinding inside you gets louder, righting itself to the uniform sound of gears turning, a metronome starting behind your eyes. You speed up as the ticking slows, the silence between each muted click drawing out further with every moment.

You aren't consciously moving, swinging, dodging, and letting screams rip through you in place of blades.

The first real cut you savor, blood whetting your sword as he stumbles back and you capitalize on it as a chance to double your speed. The metronome barely moves in your mind, each slow beat a thunderous boom. He can't seem to flashstep anymore, merely freezing for split seconds before moving again. You know he's beat.

You cut him, slashing across his chest sixteen times, once for each year you've had to deal with him. Blood is soaked through his shirt and turning it as red as your own. You want an undisputed victory. 

When he can't get up after falling to his knees yet again, you prick his throat. "Yeild?"

You don't get answer, and frankly you don't want one.

That's why you drove your sword through his neck and heard the snap as it severed his spine. The only sounds you hear is the wet crack as his body hits the pavement, and the pounding of the metronome. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written entirely while listening to Sandblast by Fox Stevenson, and Lightspeed, also by the same creator.


End file.
